Safe
by Pheonicia
Summary: A dark and twisted tale of a talented thief caught in unusual circumstances. Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

_Author's note: Oblivion and the Elder Scrolls are owned by Bethesda._

* * *

_Just one more..._

Small vibrations run down the length of the pick, physical representations of the tinny _tink_ as the tumbler bounces into place. Testing, testing, always testing. Just like Yana used to do. She was a smart one. No wonder they wrote a book about her.

_Snick_. The sweet sound of success, one I've heard many times in my life.

A quick check of the hinges, grease in place to silence them, and a final glance around the room. Not that it could be called a proper room – ceiling crumbled away years ago, battered wooden table with alchemy apparatus cluttering the top, and one weatherbeaten wooden chest sitting in the corner. But no people, no guardians, and no watching eyes.

Raising the lid coincides with the rise of hairs on the back of my neck, and I freeze, securely hidden from view with the chameleon potion provided by the good mages of Bravil. If they'd known what it would be used for...

Carefully, cautiously, ever so slowly, I once more turn my head to look around. There are no witnesses to this crime, save the large moons above, and they never speak. So many atrocities committed under their cold stare. But the night is my time, darkness my friend, and they are my silent companions. Not that all jobs are performed only when the sun goes down.

Smiling as the lid is raised up fully, it is difficult to resist the temptation to just grab the prize and run. That would certainly rouse the daedra. And in turn they would rouse the conjurers. Which would surely rouse the wizard. Not that he was here tonight. Thank the Gods for small favours.

The arrowhead is cool to the touch, surprisingly...normal. Obsidian, most likely. Roughly chipped into shape. My cousin makes better arrows than these, and he uses rocks as tools. He's also got rocks for brains, but that's another story.

The lid closes smoothly, lock clicking back into place, no traces of the task left behind. As appealing as the idea is of playing another round of _dodge the dremora_, climbing back down the outside of the tower, and away to freedom, is a far more appealing prospect. Now to just make sure the prize is safely put away in my pouch...

"Interesting."

Damn! The bastard is right behind me, and I didn't even hear him approach. Left hand flying to my dagger, specially prepared just for him, right hand desperately clutching the arrowhead, I spin to face him. The movements are fast, practiced over the years, steady despite the heady rush of panic that flows through my veins. A symphony of heartbeat almost drowns out the sounds of the Dark Elf's words.

_Almost._

Red eyes, grey stone, and black are all that are visible as my strength fails me. Why is it that rock is always so very uncomfortable to fall upon?

"Very interesting indeed."


	2. Chapter 2

Blackness. The moons and stars must have been destroyed – all light is gone. Opening and closing my eyes once more yields no further information.

The curl of my leg towards my chest is halted with a rattle of metal. Chained up like an animal. This is _not_ a good thing.

But leg irons and locks are old familiar territory, even in utter darkness, and the panic hasn't yet returned. From the sound that bounces back from the walls the room (dungeon? cell?) must be small. There is no answering rustle, moan, or cry, so I most likely am the sole occupant of this...wherever.

Pulling my arms closer to find that there are no restraints on their movement, but there is an increased weight around each wrist. Unable to see, my fingers resort to being my eyes. Deeply etched runes in metal bands – this can only mean one thing.

"Damn." I mutter the curse, far weaker than intended. Some unnatural heaviness weighs down my body, a sensation not experienced since that bad case of swamp fever. Nonetheless my fingers are able to feel the thick clasp of iron around the right ankle, and the sparking chill of the lock.

"_Damn_." This time a little louder. Further exploration with my hands leads me to conclude that I am, essentially, in deep trouble. All hidden picks are gone, even the ones secreted in my clothes - not that I'd be able to use them if I had them. The lock is magically held, and the bracers on my wrist prevent the use of any spells. Even if I could get free, it is doubtful I'd be able to walk in this highly weakened state.

Right. Time to take stock of the situation. Trapped who knows where, intact but lacking strength, stuck in a pitch black something, at a wizard's mercy. Panic seems like a good option right now, but that would certainly help nothing.

How long has it been since the moons watched my failure? My lover knew where I was going, the possible dangers that lay ahead, surely he'd have planned something in case of my capture. There was no way he'd simply let me rot in here.

_I have need of your special gifts..._

He couldn't _afford_ to let me rot in here. Who else could have stolen a powerful artifact from Moth Priests? Who else could have moved silently through a series of tunnels filled with daedra?

And who managed to get herself captured by a wizard? Who was lying here in the dark with no possible hope of escape? Who was relying on a group of thieves to save her?

Trying to wipe away the shameful tears with my sleeve hurts, the jagged edge of a bracer cutting a line in my cheek. That stings, and draws out a hiss in response. At least it's a distraction from the looming desperation. Such indulgences would result in nothing.

"I wasn't planning on torture, so you don't need to start on your own." Green light, the intensity blinding to my eyes, fills my sight. But there is a glimpse of walls, a ceiling, a _door_, before my eyelids are pressed tightly together. Trying to sit up and pull away from the mer who'd cast the spell results in a painful bump to the back of the head, weakened muscles unable to stop the momentum that the sudden movement causes as I fall heavily against the wall.

"A mild poison. Makes you very weak, but there are no other ill effects. The less you move the more comfortable you'll be," he explains. Is that humour in his words? Or contempt?

Silence descends upon us as he waits for me to respond. No chance in that. It's always safer to say as little as possible at all times. Never admit anything. A few run ins with the Legion has reinforced that lesson. Cunning bastards, asking innocent questions until you were caught in a web of lies, guilt written upon you as clear as if you were holding the illicit goods in your hands.

Stolen glances through lashes, a useful trick, reveal a wealth of information. The room is not very large, the size of an average bedroom, and completely bare of furnishings. Sitting cross legged on the floor, glowing brightly, is my captor. A tray beside him, laden with food and drink, suddenly remind me that I am starving. More time must have passed than I thought.

"You do not need to pretend you are asleep. Look around if you wish, Sera." 

This name he uses is unfamiliar, but it shall do. But now comes the dilemma - ignore him and continue feigning unconsciousness, or get a good look at him, and the room? Much as it hurts my pride to seemingly do as I'm told, the need to try and get as much helpful knowledge as possible about the situation overrules. Perhaps there will not be another opportunity like this.

The bastard smiles in response to the sneer I bestow on him. Rather than engage in a staring contest, the details of the cell, for that is what it is, are noted. The thick chain that binds one ankle is attached to a very sturdy iron ring set in the wall. The floor is smooth, dark stone polished flat, and relatively clean. There aren't any telltale signs of rodents, which may or may not be a good thing.

The walls and ceiling are the same smooth rock, leading to the conclusion that this room is underground, probably somewhere in the series of tunnels that connect the castle to the tower. It is the door, however, that captures the imagination. For it is smooth, solid, and without a handle. With no hinges to be seen, its operation is a mystery. 

"Would you like a drink? You must be thirsty." The Dunmer offers, indicating the pitcher on the tray. Trying not to pay attention to the thought of refreshment, or the sandpaper quality of my tongue, his offer is met with contemptible silence. As if it would be a good idea to trust a mage, let alone one that keeps daedra for pets and has a dungeon in his cellar.

"Ah, Sera, I wish you no harm. I only desire to have a friendly chat. That was quite an accomplishment. Sneaking by elementals is one thing, but to go unnoticed past a daedroth? A very clever trick." 

It is hard to tell if he is at all sincere in his flattery. Those red eyes of his, tilted up above his slanted cheekbones, reveal nothing. They say Dunmer's eyes glow in the dark, but that is not something I've found to be true.

"I haven't seen anyone move so well through the shadows since the Morag Tong paid me a visit many years ago. For a while I thought you were one of them. This," the daedric dagger, the good luck charm from my lover, is revealed in his hand, "is a compliment. Such a remarkable poison, tailor made for me. Silence, paralysis, frost damage; I do wonder who cared enough to create it."

This was definitely not good. A thief, a rogue, a smuggler I was. An assassin I was not, and to be thought of as one by a wizard did not bode well for further chances of survival. The rush of fear causes a corresponding pounding in both sides of my head - the unsoothed bump on the back, and the beginnings of a migraine in the front.

"Especially since they sent you for this, and not me." The dark arrowhead lies in the other palm. Ah, the sight of my undoing is painful to see. So close to success, snatched away by means I still didn't understand. 

"Sera, will you say nothing to clarify this matter? Does my hospitality so distress you?"

The absurdity of the question elicits a sharp bark of laughter. Hospitality? Being held captive does not qualify as hospitality. Were it not for this infernal weakness plaguing me he'd be wiping spit from his eyes, but the fear of merely drooling stills that desire.

"Is there nothing I could do to prove my good intentions? Anything you wish that is in my power to grant, I would be happy to provide," he offers. The mer is an actor of the highest caliber, or a hypocrite of the worst sort. Either way he is dangerous, powerful, and most likely mad.

"Let me go." The effort to speak is shockingly difficult. But the words are understood.

"I wish that I could, but you are far safer in here than out there," he replies mournfully, gently shaking his head while offering a look of...pity? The mer is surely mad. Safer in here? Trapped by a crazy mage? No, that certainly makes no sense.

"You're bleeding. Should I heal that for you? I do apologize for the bracers, but they are necessary for your protection." Without waiting for a reply he sends a small ball of restoration magic at me. Trying to dodge it results only in a great deal of pain as my side slams into the floor, muscles too weary to prevent the fall. Yet another spell heads towards me, but there is no effort to avoid it. The magic soothes away the soreness, and it is a struggle not to sigh in relief at the sensation.

"Rest, Sera, and I shall visit later," he says softly before fading away into the encroaching darkness. There are no sounds after that, and unsure whether he's gone or not, sleep is fought off until it can no longer be avoided.

Which must be hours, for the entire time is spent worrying about the possibilities of a wizard who likes to heal his prisoners, and wondering what particular type of madness led him to believe that keeping me here somehow counted as rendering me safe. 

Safe from what? There wasn't anything out there to be feared, merely the fate that awaits down here. 

Right?


	3. Chapter 3

_Just a little further. _

A fingernail scrapes against the edge of the wooden lip, bringing with it a jolt of excitement. Just a little bit further, a slight stretch more...

No! The movement pushes the tray farther away, and in that instant I know that all is lost. To compliment the agony the muscles down my back choose that moment to spasm wildly, protesting the contortions they've been subjected to.

Too weak to even curl up into a ball, leg pulled taut by the chain attached to the wall, not strong enough to push back along the floor to slacken the tension, the tears begin to flow.

I'm sick of it all. Sick of the tears and the darkness, of the hunger, the pain, and the _thirst_. Gods, the thirst is unbelievable, a need that screams constantly for attention, that wakes me from my fitful dreams. 

All thoughts turn towards the pitcher on the floor, just out of reach. What does it hold? Water? Wine? Poison? Is it still fresh, or has it gone off? How much does it hold? Two glasses? Three? Would it be enough to tame this unquenchable thirst?

Fadomai save me, this is unendurable. Limbs slowly losing what little strength they'd possessed, nothing but black to keep me company, and the slow torturous death of dehydration to look forward to.

"Sera, is something wrong?"

The unexpected voice and sudden flare of light cause a loud gasp, then a sharp hiss as the ankle, already raw from the constant tug of the cuff against the skin, jostles with the involuntary flinch of surprise. 

As my eyes adjust to the painful glow it dawns on me that I didn't hear him enter, just as I never heard him leave. And to see him sitting there, same position as before, same mocking kind smile on his face, is beyond surreal. Surely he hasn't been beside me in the dark all this time. It's been hours. Hasn't it?

"Is there anything I can do for you? You need but ask," he inquires. 

How I hate him, this despicable wretch, this sadistic bastard. 

"Let me go," I croak, throat parched and hoarse from crying. He shakes his head again in that sad fashion, and bestows another of his pitying looks.

"You know that's not possible. You're safe here. I can't let you leave now," he answers. "Is there nothing else you would ask of me?"

"Leave me alone." The reply isn't as harsh as I'd like, sounding more pathetic than powerful, but at least he understands the words. It's so hard to speak through cracked lips.

"As you wish." The cheerful words and sudden plunge into darkness do nothing to help. Because now that I can no longer see the pitcher with my eyes, it dances across my mind. 

Metal, pewter most likely, perhaps even silver. Large, delightfully large, surely large enough to hold at least three glasses worth of liquid. Perhaps four. Maybe even five...


	4. Chapter 4

Dying takes a lot longer than I imagined.

Surely it will happen soon. My body can't possibly last.

So much pain - it's really quite remarkable. A headache, more intense than the worst hangover, prevents all possibility of sleep. Muscles twitch occasionally, knots of fire dancing in my limbs. The ankle is moist, bleeding where the metal has rubbed through the thick cloth of the pants and the thin layer of skin. Would that I could reach it, I'd happily drink my own blood. But the small weight of the metal bracers pin my arms down to the floor, as securely as if they'd been chained.

The visions are the worst though – feverish delusions dancing in the darkness. Giant rats come to chew on my toes, bigger than the ones in Rimmen. Baan Dar watches, laughing, singing songs of sugar and moonbeams while swishing his tail.

Miniature versions of my lover come to rescue me, hordes of them sawing at the ropes that tie me to the ground. Why hasn't he come? He can see me, I know he can. He could if he would but _look. _

Surely he looks for me, searches me out from his home. I'd wave, but I can't lift my arms. Am I upside down in the sphere? Or is he the one who is backwards?

Another violent spasm wracks my body, and my screams are muffled by my own tongue, so swollen that my teeth no longer meet.

"Fadomai, help me." I try to beg the Gods for aid. Maybe they can't understand my near incoherent mutterings.

"Sera, is something wrong? Did you ask for help?"

This _cannot_ be. My captor, my tormentor, my _murderer_, is here once more. And smiling. Always smiling.

"Oh dear, was the tray too far for you to reach? You must be so thirsty. Say the word, and I shall help you."

Words are beyond me at this point. A mutter, dark oath woven underneath, is all I can manage. Even as my eyes adjust to the light that he always brings with him they still pain me. Sometimes the black is replaced with blinding white as I lie here, a snowstorm that does nothing to curb the fever within. I am hot and cold, fire encased in ice, and it _hurts_.

"Sera, here, drink this," he says as my hand is curled around a clay cup. The result is inevitable, predictable, and yet devastating. As soon as he releases my arm it falls back down heavily to the ground, cup shattering, liquid spilling everywhere, shards of pottery embedded in the palm.

It is too much to take. Feeling the water on my bleeding skin, somehow hoping that it can be absorbed inside anyway, salvation literally puddling around my fingers...

The crying begins again, dry, painful sobs, heart sick with grief. A dagger through the head would be preferable to this misery. Why doesn't he end it?

A dark hope blossoms when I feel a strong hand grip the back of my neck. Perhaps he'll snap it and be done with me. Surely I am past the point of entertainment.

But to my delight, my horror, that does not happen. Instead I am pulled up, seated against the wall, hand on the back of the neck to keep me from falling over. The sudden movement brings on a wave of grey and the world threatens to slip away into blackness.

"Steady, Sera," the voice beside me soothes. "You should have told me you needed help. How can I make you happy if you do not ask?"

The insanity of the words is forgotten as the most incredible, beautiful, wonderful water I've ever tasted touches my lips. It is a mere trickle, but it is perfect.

"Slowly, Sera," he cautions when he feels my feeble attempt to tilt up my chin, to drink faster. "Don't rush. Take your time – I'm here for you. I'll make it better."

By the time the third cup is finally raised to my lips it is a very difficult proposition to keep drinking, as I'm sobbing once more.

"Do not cry, Sera. I never want to see you cry. You're injured. I'll take away the pain." The words are accompanied by the tingle of restoration magic swirling around me. It feels good, and my body can't help but relax as the pain begins to recede.

I hate him. I hate that he's done this to me, I hate that he keeps me alive, I hate that I am at his mercy.

And as the cup is raised once more, I hate myself for the gratitude I feel for his help.


	5. Chapter 5

"Sera, how are you feeling? Is there anything you would like?" He asks, that horrible, cruel, gentle smile on his face. The part of me that is pleased to see it is a traitor, foul betrayer of my heart.

How am I feeling? Can that question even be answered at this point? Physically, maybe. My body is weak, probably poisoned anew with each meal, perhaps wasted away with lack of movement. But otherwise it is fine, except for the soreness that pervades every joint as I lie on the unyielding dark stone for hours on end.

Were it not for the hard floor pressing into me each time the light disappears I would not believe that I was still alive. My mind drifts, eating away at itself, stacking random memories on top of the other until I begin living life backwards. Trivial exercises to try and stay grounded – counting in multiples of two, listing the cities in Elsweyr, trying to think of words that rhyme – inevitably slip off into the realm of madness, or perhaps merely into the realm of dreams. Maybe the two are able to meet here in the perfect dark. Perhaps this is not underground at all, but a realm partway in Aetherius, where infinity and time lose all meaning.

It _must_ be hours each time the black returns. For when the light comes back I hunger and thirst anew, ready to be fed and tended to. The sound of his voice, the fact that I can see again, taste and hear and smell, brings with it a small amount of..._joy_. A disturbing sensation that causes no end of worry.

"Food. Drink. Healing." There are the only words I ever speak to him. Everything else is met with silence. How long this situation can last (how long has it lasted already?) is something I dare not ponder.

There is the small wait as he comes to sit beside me, bringing the tray closer. The chain to the wall is stretched almost as far as it can be, and though I could reach him with my right hand, I do not bother trying to attack. While movement has been restored to my limbs they are still clumsy and awkward, slow and uncooperative. And even if he was killed it would prove my undoing – unless he carried the keys to free my bonds on him at all times. Yet I doubt that he does, and do not wish to risk death by dehydration to settle the debate.

The warm hand clasped at the base of the skull always unnerves me. It is what he does every time I eat and drink, though at this point it is unnecessary to steady me. At first it brought to mind unsavoury connotations, and the worry that it would begin to wander reduced my appetite, but that never happens. It merely _is_, a constant physical presence. Deep down I find it almost reassuring, for when he does this all pain eases from my limbs, magic soothing away the rock's discomforting handiwork, but this thought is one I do not wish to admit.

The ritual is the same. A cup, filled with water, passed to my waiting hands. Once it is empty a bowl of stew (one onion, one potato, one carrot, large pieces of ham – the ingredients are always the same, always chopped the same, always taste the same) is offered. And then the bread (three thick slices, lightly buttered) to round out the meal and mop up the remaining gravy. Finally the fruit (apple, how I hate apple), neatly sliced into eighths.

Today I do not wish to eat it, so sick am I of this loathsome taste, and refuse it when offered. By now I know that he does not intend to starve me, so long as this little performance is repeated each time.

"Is something wrong, Sera? Are you not hungry?" He is studying me, the faint wrinkles on his oval face intensifying as he squints.

"I hate apples." The answer comes out and it is a shock to hear my voice again. Apart from three words (_FoodDrinkHealing_) I am quiet at all other times. I used to try talking to myself, singing and screaming and crying into the black, but that only made things even more surreal. And somehow it seems as though he is always there listening, though that cannot be possible.

"Why did you not tell me this? I would not have prepared them for you if I knew you did not like them. Sera, you must tell me what you want. You know I only wish to please you," he answers with that warm and hated smile.

"Let me go." It is a foregone conclusion that he won't, but that is all I want, the _only_ thing I want. Escape is never far from my thoughts, and each lock has been tested, every link of the chain tugged, a thousand times. And each time yields nothing but sore fingers and broken nails. He never asks what I do to my fingertips to injure them so, but he probably can guess. They are healed each time anyway.

He sighs heavily, and gently squeezes the nape of my neck, almost like a reassuring gesture. The temptation to shrug off his hand is very strong right now. His touch is anathema to me.

"We both know that can't happen. You're safe here. I will protect you, don't worry."

The soothing words, so gently spoken, break my heart anew. Hot tears pour from my eyes at the sheer helplessness of my situation. There isn't even a way for me to end it. The chain is too short to wrap around my neck, my strength isn't enough to bash my head against the wall, and no matter how hard I search for it I cannot find the edge of the bracer that was sharp enough to cut me. My fingers don't even have enough power to tear into the veins of my throat.

"Shh, Sera, please don't cry," he soothes, his other hand brushing my cheek. That garners a flinch in response – I can tolerate the hand on my neck, for that somehow seems required, but I won't abide any further touches of his.

His fingers tighten, almost but not quite painful, as he holds my head in place. As he wipes away the tears, sadness forgotten in the overwhelming hatred I have for him, it is all I can do not to suddenly bite his hand. I hate him more than I have ever hated anyone.

Another cupful of water passed to me, and I take it and sip, grateful that his other hand has left me alone once more. Surprisingly, he does something new, adds another layer to our game.

"Would you like to hear a story, Sera?" He asks calmly, pretending the sullen glare I'm giving him does not register. A story sounds like a horrible idea, and yet a tiny part of me wants to say yes, to prolong his stay, for when the meal is over he takes the light with him, and the darkness is always waiting to claim me once more. It is hard to say which I hate more at this point - him, or the darkness.

"I think you'll like it." he says, pausing to wait for a response. But none is offered, and he continues. "Many years ago, in a land where the moons dance above the desert, a remarkable princess was born. She was the youngest of three daughters, and the most talented of them all. Alas, the queen was murdered by the king, and he was sent to prison, leaving the daughters alone to fend for themselves."

Can he feel the way the muscles under his grasp have tightened? This story – my story – is not a good one. How can he know? How can he possibly know, when he doesn't even know my name? I've given him nothing, said nothing, done nothing that would allow such intimate details of my life to be known to him.

"The eldest married poorly, and lived among the beggars and thieves. The middle daughter moved far away, and did not bother to write. The youngest quickly learnt that there are those who would protect her in exchange for her services."

He left out a part, the part with the apples, the brief part where the youngest daughter lives like a slave with a merchant family, working all day in exchange for all the apples (only apples nothing but apples) she can eat. The beatings were free.

"But the princess was smart, and developed her talents, and soon she outstripped those who would protect her. And she hungered – for wealth, for happiness, for security. But she could not see that she was capable of great things, and ended up in love with a wicked noble."

He pauses, stopping to eat a rejected slice of apple, thin fingers delicately holding onto the sliver of fruit. A stolen glance in his direction reveals him to be perfectly content and comfortable, dressed in his fine linen clothes, clean hair tied back with a fancy ribbon. The state of my own hair is something I try not to contemplate.

Contemptible, despicable bastard.

He catches my eye, causing a blush that cannot be controlled. He _knows_. Somehow he can see it in my eyes, and in that instant I feel as though all of my secrets, my shames, lie bare before him. At that moment I wonder if it wouldn't be better if he'd merely decided to torture me.

"Forgive me, Sera. Sometimes I do go on. I shall let you rest now. Perhaps we will speak further when next I see you," he says. The smile can be heard in his words but it is not visible; I'm staring down at the dull metal cuffs on my wrists, not wanting to meet his gaze.

The light fades as his hand slides from my neck, leaving me shattered, alone in the perfect darkness.


	6. Chapter 6

This time it is grapes. Grapes are not bad, though they remind me overmuch of eyeballs. Eyeballs surely don't taste anything like grapes though. Right?

A giggle escapes at the purple sphere in his palm, as I wonder what I would look like with grapes for eyes. That would be ever so much more exotic than brown.

"So you are capable of laughter. It is music to my ears, Sera. You must laugh more often."

He sounds triumphant as the grape is stolen from his hand. Every day (week? year? hour?) it is something new, and my guess is he is trying to discover my favourite fruit. So far it hasn't appeared, but that makes sense. Watermelon isn't in season. Wasn't in season. Is it in season?

"Is there nothing else I can offer you?" His question frightens me, because he always asks that before the end of the meal. With horror I realize the grapes are gone, and all that remains is a meagre amount of water to sip. Perhaps that can be stretched out for a few minutes.

I do not want the darkness to return. Each time it does it brings with it madness, plagues me with waking nightmares. With each visit he brings back the light, and the sanity, and I am safe from myself once more.

_Safe_.

That word he always uses. Keeping me here to keep me safe. Locking me away for my own protection. It is all lies, surely. Lies designed to confuse me, to cloud my mind and dull my wits. Except my thoughts run away in the darkness, and they have a new topic they like to use to entertain me.

What does he know?

The story has not been continued, though he's visited several times since. If he knows so much of my past, could he know of a danger to my present? Am I fighting one who wishes to protect me?

Many have claimed to be able to protect me. They were sought out - the strongest, the smartest, the most influential. Being by their side ensured my survival, but it was not without cost. There was always something to be done for them, some danger to risk, some task to perform, usually on the wrong side of the law. Smuggling into Black Marsh, meeting with rebels in Leyawiin, consorting with thieves in Valenwood.

But there had been lessons too, opportunities to study some very useful skills, to hone some specialized talents. It was just after the last alliance had ended in a spectacular argument that the idea of working on my own had entered my mind.

That experiment had not lasted long.

His free hand is outstretched, waiting for the empty cup, and my own shakes as I pass it back to him. It can't be time for the darkness to return. Not so soon.

As the pressure on my neck subsides my body moves back with it, trying to maintain contact as I stall for time.

"Story." The word tumbles out, but it does the trick. The reassuring press of his warm skin remains, the black held off for a while longer.

"Certainly, Sera. You need only ask for what you desire. As long as it is in my power to do so, I will be happy to provide."

He's doing it again, looking at me as if he actually _cares_. And for the first time I wonder if there is any sincerity at all in his offer. What if I did ask for something? A change of clothes, a pillow, a candle? Something small that would be all too easy to grant. Would he do it? And why did it feel that he'd have won some small victory if I asked?

Why was there even a war in the first place?

"The evil noble saw the talents of the princess, and could not fail to make schemes," he takes up the tale from where he left it, as if no time has passed at all. But there have been eternities of waiting between _then_ and _now_. Does he not feel them too? Or am I the only one who drifts through the dark alone?

"There was a demon he wished dead. The noble was weak, and cowardly, and dared not go alone to kill it. So he lied to the princess, and armed her with poison, and sent her into the demon's lair."

This was not expected. To have him cast himself in the role of the demon felt..._honest_. Humble. Modest. Shouldn't he be the shining knight, or the charming prince? At least, if he wanted to lie about things. He's a very skilled liar.

Isn't he?

"The demon wept inside at the sight of the princess sent to steal a worthless trinket, tricked into a position of thinking she had no choice but to kill him. For he could see her beauty, and her goodness, and he loved her for it."

Fear of what I might find keeps my eyes fixed on the bracers on my wrist, away from his face. _Love_? Talk of love and beauty and goodness? What fresh hell is this?

"But she was blinded with lies, and could not see that he was not an evil demon, and that the noble had used her. If he let her go back she would surely suffer for her failure, for the noble would be furious that the demon still lived. She knew too much, though she didn't know anything at all."

He stops again, and I do not wish to know why. This _story_, this nest of lies, was a very poor choice on my part. Thoughts that _should not be_ now circle around inside my head, joining with the others, vultures waiting to pick over the broken pieces of my shattered mind.

"Sera, you're trembling. I think you need to rest. We will speak again another time."

The hand, and light, are gone in an instant. All that remains is the darkness, the familiar hated darkness, that once more cradles me in its maddening embrace.


	7. Chapter 7

"I do worry about you, Sera. There are things you haven't asked for yet that you should have long ago."

His statement halts the motion of the pear slice towards my mouth. What would there be that I could ask for? What else is there to do but exist in this place? To suffer through eternities until he returns once more and rescues me from the darkness?

"What..." The question starts before I remember that I am not speaking to him. Because...of something. It is a sign of weakness to speak, right? Or is there strength in speaking? For he speaks much and is so strong, while I say nothing and am so frail.

"A bath," he answers, while staring at my matted nest of hair. There was a point where such things bothered me, but sometime ago it seemed to lose all importance. In the dark there is no one to see you, not even yourself.

But to know that he has noticed the state of my disarray, has held onto my neck despite the stench of my clothes, shames me. His discomfort never crossed my mind.

"I may...may I bathe?" Is that really my voice coming back from the smooth walls? It sounds so small and rusty. No wonder my body is so weak. I shall have to speak more often.

"Of course! You need only ask. Perhaps you would like something different to wear as well?" He is delighted with my question, giving me a happy grin. How odd that I always forget to ask him for things. Maybe it is because I am busy being lost in the past while waiting for him, the future, to return.

"Yes." Such relief and joy at finally talking again. Why did I punish myself by not doing so? It is good that he is patient. "May I have new clothes?"

"I've been waiting for you to ask. Let me get them for you."

"No!" As his touch pulls away my hand reaches out, too slow to grab his arm, but fast enough to clutch his sleeve. If he goes the darkness comes back, and it is far too soon for that to happen. I am not ready. Though one can never really be ready for it.

The light remains, and he stares down coldly, looming over me where he stands. It makes me feel guilty, though for what reason I do not comprehend. Panic seizes hold – panic that he'll not come back, panic that I've forgotten something, misplaced a vitally important thought. And with the panic comes the tears during the horrible silence in which he says nothing. Why does he not speak?

"I do not recall giving permission for you to touch me." His words are so distant, and a fresh torrent of tears is unleashed as my hand quickly pulls away from the soft fabric. Something is so wrong with this situation, but my mind can't decipher what. There is a sense of loss, a mourning for something that once was, a yearning for what used to be. But it has no name that can be recalled, and it slips further away with each passing moment.

"Sera," he soothes while reaching down to grab hold of my neck once more. The reassuring feel of his hand instantly starts to calm away my distress. "Do not cry. I never wish to see you cry. But you must remember to ask for what you need. What do you need?"

"Light." The answer is rasped out between sniffles. "Please don't leave me without light."

An eternity seems to pass while waiting for him to speak once again, but it is a rather pleasant one. The warmth of his touch on the nape of my neck feels good, and my body presses up just a little to enjoy it more.

"It won't be much, but it will have to be enough. I shall return shortly," he finally pronounces. It is a strange sight to see, or rather, not to see. The darkness removes him from view, but a tiny glow of light remains, woven around my body. It cannot penetrate more than a hands breadth into the black, but it protects me nonetheless.

Curiosity fuels the inspection of my apparel. The hem of my pants where the iron cuff is attached is solid from old blood, long since dried and hardened. There are small tears and holes, the knees worn from crawling, the felt thin in the back where it has pressed against the stone floor for several lifetimes worth of darkness.

The heavy woolen sweater has fared worse. One sleeve has unravelled halfway up the arm, and the other one is held together by frayed threads.

It is the bracers that fascinate though. The daedric runes surely say something – my fingertips have read them endlessly in the dark, memorizing every curve and divot. Without them my own spell would drive the darkness back until light bounced from every surface and no shadows could be found.

Protection, he'd called them, back in the beginning. Protection for him from me had been the first thought. Now others joined it – protection from unknown forces, protection from the darkness, protection from my lover...

_Love_. My lover had used that word freely, it had sounded so sincere at the time. Not around the others though, never around them. Jealousy, accusations of favouritism, acts of sabotage – he'd warned that would happen if we were too overt. But the guild members had known anyway, our relationship common gossip.

Had it really been protecting my reputation that had been his motivation? Or something else? Had he ever really loved me at all?

Why had he given me that dagger, soaked in deadly poison, as a good luck charm?

Before the questions can spiral further out of control a soft touch and flare of brightness pulls me from them.

"Sera, put this on," he says, offering a folded linen garment. It ends up being a cloud of a gown, very large, made of thin, soft fabric. It is a struggle, but eventually the swaths of material are tamed and my head pops through the collar.

Sensing my thought as soon as it occurs, he slides his other hand onto my neck while removing the arm that is trapped under the gown. As he does so he turns around, leaving me safe with the light while protecting my modesty. It is a small kindness, but greatly appreciated.

There are already buttons missing from the front of my ragged sweater, and it takes little time to undo those that remain. The pants, however, are much more of a challenge. After a brief struggle, during which a rest is required, they are shimmied down to the ankles. And here is where the problem lies, for one leg is free, but the other is connected to the wall.

"Do you need any assistance?"

The timing is perfect, as my arms have finally managed to locate and slip through the generous sleeves. Sitting naked under this tent of linen makes me feel somehow lost.

"My ankle...I can't remove all of my clothes." Somehow it feels wrong to speak of the chain, the iron cuff, the restraint that binds me to the wall. As if the mention of them may offend him, resulting in a sudden plunge into darkness.

It is hated, this cruel metal that tethers me like a tame bear. The mer that frees the leg from the shackles was just as hated, but now that anger does not burn as brightly. How can it, when he has made sure to tenderly maintain a hold on my neck even as he releases the leg he bound?

_Run_.

As he pulls me up to stand, holding me as I sway, the thought suddenly pops into mind. This degree of freedom has been denied for...since the beginning. Sparks of remembrance whisper urgency, haste, opportunity.

For what purpose though? To run into the door? To anger him? To bring back the darkness?

"Sera, it hurts me to do it, but we must move without the light. It is for your protection."

My body flinches, draws back, shifts with uneasiness. This is so very new, and rather terrifying. Trapped in the darkness the only thing I had to fear was my own mind, but the prospect of leaving this room, where nothing has ever hurt me, is frightening.

"I am here with you. I will keep you safe. Relax, Sera," he soothes as the light fades away.

The journey is slow and exhausting, and disorientation quickly sets in. A strength I suspect to be magical, an extension of his power, suffuses my heavy limbs. When my feet trip over themselves he does not let me fall.

But somehow this darkness is not so terrible, for his reassuring hand on the back of my neck is a constant presence, and with it comes a sense of security.

"Sera, I must let go of you for a moment," he says calmly as panic grips my heart. Alone, blind, in an unknown environment – the thought is too much. "Shh, do not fear. Just stand here and stay absolutely still. No matter what, don't move. Can you do this for me?"

"I don't..."

"Do not cry. I will return before you realize I am gone." His voice is so smooth, like the skin of his fingers as they caress my cheek, wiping away the tears that had slipped out before I'd been aware of them. "Just stay still and you will be fine."

And with that his hand is gone, no noise to indicate that he's left, for he moves in a cone of silence that cannot be detected.

My muscles threaten to betray me as they start to burn, unused to such exertion. But my will is stronger, and they remain in place, as my fingers trace the runes on my bracers. They are my protection – _his_ protection - and as such I will not be harmed.

Noise that is not him, not me, comes from ahead. The click of thick nails on rock, the slither of scaly skin on stone, and the low growl, so very deep, reveal an unseen _daedroth_.

_I am protected. I am safe. Don't move. Don't panic. He'll be back. I am protected..._

The litany runs over top the fear that screams underneath. It is repeated nonstop, maintaining a tenuous grasp on my self control, until the hot blast of air as the monster _snorts_ on my face breaks my resolve.

Pain, unendurable agony, jolts through my body. Jagged needles pierce the flesh where it has pulled away from the daedra – back, arms, legs – all are moist, bleeding, torn. The wall behind me is surely covered in razor sharp spikes, and my blood is just as surely glistening off them in the darkness.

The world collapses around me as incomprehensible sensations vie for attention. Scales under my hand, the bare sole of one foot being shredded as it scrapes the wall, the tang of blood in my mouth as the jolt of impact from hitting the (floor? ceiling?) sends my teeth into my tongue, and the terrified moan that surrounds from all angles...

"Sera!" The name (_his_ name for _me_) is accompanied by the most wonderful feeling of all – safety, peace, healing, comfort – as he takes hold of my neck. The fear and pain melt away, leaving nothing but the aftermath of emotions.

"Sera, did you move? I told you to remain still. Please listen to me next time."

He's scolding me, but he's right to do so. I should not have flinched from the daedroth (_his_ daedroth) like that.

"Don't cry. It's over now. I'm here. You're safe," he soothes while picking me up. Trying to stem the flow of tears is difficult, for they are fueled by so many things. The memory of pain, the relief at his return, and even guilt at having disobeyed...

We are moving again, up, down, backwards, sideways, the sticky feel of my own blood as the ruined fabric of the gown clings to my backside a shameful reminder of that incident.

"We're here, Sera," he states as the darkness flees from his light.

To my utter shock I recognize the location as the tunnels that connect his tower to the castle. The stretch of water, black underneath the inky slick reflection as his spell plays over the surface, is one that I crossed on my way in. And if I know the way in, then that means I know the way out...

The water is rushing up towards my face. Just a quick swim, a short run, and then freedom. Instinct shouts out to hurry.

_Flee_.

But instinct, once such a wise counselor, has led me astray. For freedom is not my useless limbs, three of the four weighted down with metal, struggling to keep my head above water. Freedom is not death, and fear, and panic as water is gulped down in equal quantities as air...

_Fadomai help me gods save me don't let me drown_

"I won't let you drown," he answers. As his strong hand (safe hand) holds my head above water it is a desperate struggle not to turn to him and cling for dear life (don't have permission).

"Do try to stop doing that, Sera. It is hard to keep you safe if you will not let me. Bathing is normally never this perilous." He jokes, the first one I've heard from him, and it is rewarded with tinny laughter, slightly unnatural and strained, but genuine nonetheless.

"I have you. Remember that. Now come down with me below," he urges as we start to dip lower.

"Don't let go. Please." My words are urgent, desperate, begging.

"Of course, Sera. I will do as you ask. All you need to do is keep breathing," he answers gently before we slip underwater.

It is hard at first to relax, to magically breathe as we sink down away from the light, but his hold never slackens. Soon it is dark and I am floating, disoriented completely as I drift in the black.

But there is no fear of losing my mind to the currents that swirl around my limbs, cleaning away layers of dirt, for as long as the hand (_his_ hand) is on my neck I am _safe_.


	8. Chapter 8

"Why..." The start of the question slips out.

He gives me a warm, kind smile as his hand pulls away from the ankle, cuff securely chained to the wall once more. It is odd how the green of his light spell makes his eyes appear so dark. How is it that red and green make black?

"What is it, Sera?" The query is accompanied by a small motion as his thumb idly strokes the skin of my neck, up towards my damp hair before heading back down again. It is very soothing, and calms the nervousness at the words that struggle to take shape.

"Why must the ankle be secured?" It is the best way I can think to ask it. So many hours have been spent wondering what reason there must be that my range of motion cannot be allowed unhindered in my room.

"To keep you safe, of course," he answers. It confuses me, and he notices. Always his eyes are on me, his lips are smiling, and the thought that the light (_his_ light) reveals me completely makes me want to hide away, pull the darkness around to keep my secrets hidden.

"From the door, Sera. The door is dangerous but necessary, keeping you protected behind it. But it would hurt you to touch it, even accidentally."

The explanation makes sense. Of course it is for my safety. Everything always is.

"Is there anything else you would ask?"

Ah, those hated words. They herald everything that is bad – darkness and loneliness and _cold_. Without him the light and heat leave and there is nothing to do but shiver and wait as the damp robes rob my body of warmth, using it to dry themselves.

Casting around, trying to think of some way to prolong the visit, to get him to stay, my gaze falls upon the bracers and their mysterious runes.

"What do they say?" The curves and contours have been traced so many times in the dark, and are studied whenever possible in the light.

One of the bracers is held out towards him, in case he should need to see it. Movement is easier now, limbs growing stronger with each journey to bathe, and though there are fewer times that I falter he still holds on and guides me _safely_ to and fro.

"My name, Sera. It marks them as mine."

_His_. His bracers are _my_ bracers. Where does the ownership end? To the depth of the etching? To the layer of metal that rubs against skin? Or further, to the flesh below?

Why is it that I wish that was the answer?

"Why...What does Sera mean?"

I do not wish to ask _why_ he calls me that, for though it isn't (wasn't) my name to correct him now seems almost rude. It would have been more polite to do so in the beginning.

A soft chuckle, the first I've heard, emanates from his chest. It is a warm sound from a warm place. Sometimes when I lie in the dark (the hated dark how I hate it why won't it leave) my back will press against the wall and it will remember the feel of him as he holds me up when my feet stumble.

"It is a term of respect and endearment, used to address those you care about."

A rush of blood heats my cheeks, surely blushing scarlet (black – green and red make black) at the answer. He has told me before that he cares, and yet it always surprises, excites, and unnerves me.

Silence falls upon us, and though he never removes his (safe) hand a swirl of unease makes me uncomfortable. Though it is not on his part – never on his part – for he always exudes such strength and confidence that I sometimes wish he would never go, and would remain to drive back the darkness forever, the hated black destroying itself against the light (_his_ light) as I hide safe behind him.

"Is there anything else you wish before I must leave?" He asks gently. Sometimes imagination fancies that he wants to stay, wants questions and conversation to prolong our time together, and it always makes me feel guilty when he receives no answer.

But this time I will answer, need to answer. "Story. May I hear more of the story?"

"Of course, Sera," he says while shifting gently where he sits on the floor next to me. His body is so close, but somehow not close enough. 

"The princess was in danger, and she was also very ill. The demon saw this, and he hid her away where she could be safe, and he nursed her back to health."

Ill? Had it been an illness in the beginning that robbed my strength and hurt my body? It had felt like swamp fever, hadn't it? The memories are so hazy - they all are now. All that can be recalled is thirst, and pain, and then his hand (_safe_)...

"As glad as he was to see her safe it hurt to be with her, for she wouldn't speak, and she cried, and nothing he did could make her happy. All he ever wanted was to make her happy, but she wouldn't let him."

The drop inside as the bottom of my stomach suddenly heads towards the floor is...guilt. Why had I remained silent for so long? 

"And as she got better, and stronger, he hoped that she might speak with him, for he couldn't help but love her, but she wouldn't. She hated him and wished him to leave her alone."

He stops, and I can _feel _him watching me. My own gaze is locked on the bracers, scanning the runes over and over again. _His _runes.

"Sera, why are you shaking your head?"

The question alerts me to the soft motion from side to side of my chin. He's telling the story wrong, and it hurts to hear it.

"Didn't she grow to hate the demon more and more?" He asks quietly. 

"No," I whisper back, trying to stave off the tears of shame (_guilt_) that cloud my eyes. 

"Didn't she want him to stay away, to never bother her again?"

"No." This answer is firmer, if a bit muffled. The thought of him going away, taking the light and heat with him, never to return...

A shiver runs through me, and one bead of moisture escapes down my face. His free hand is there almost instantly, gently wiping it away, and the tender touch is too much to take. The tears break free, and though I try and hide my face away so that he cannot see them (mustn't cry) he holds it steady, pulling back until the struggle ceases.

"Sera," he soothes, "look at me."

His face dances in the corner of my vision, rippling underwater, kaleidoscopes of his smile spinning with every blink of my sodden lashes. That smile, that kind, gentle, warm smile, never falters. How can he always be so strong? Would that I could share that strength, that smile...

"Didn't she find him ugly, repulsive, hideous?" The question is as firm as the grip on my face, preventing me from looking away. His red (black) eyes wait for an answer and suddenly I am aware of how close they are, how close all of him is. 

"No." The reply is a hint of whisper, but he hears it. His face moves in, hot breath rolling over my cheek, and that triggers violent tremors. Part of me wants to pull away, to curl up and hide, and the other part wants to lean in to him and his warmth. 

"What is it, Sera?" He asks while turning my face towards his, and the feel of our breath as it mingles, lips so close they are almost touching, is shocking. His heat is becoming my heat, warmth blossoming deep inside. 

"Is there something you want? Just say the word - you need only name it," he offers. A violent shudder tears through me and it feels as though our bottom lips briefly brush, so faint as to be almost imperceptible, but the lingering tingle reassures me that it was real, and that all I want is _more_.

"You," I eventually manage to murmur, cheeks burning with embarrassment. What if he says no? 

What if he doesn't?

Worry flees as his lips press against mine. It is far gentler and restrained than I'd imagined (when had I imagined this?) but somehow that makes it even better. Tender - he is always so tender despite his strength, and in the back of my mind one word keeps turning over and over again, the only thought underneath the sudden surge of desire that yearns for _more_.

_Love_.

He speaks of it freely, unashamed, without embarrassment. The idea had been rejected when first presented, but now...

Even that thought is lost as his lips wander along the edge of my jaw, chin tilted up by his hands, neck exposed. But his warmth does not trail down, and instead his cheek is pressed against mine as his words drift past my ear.

"Where do you want me, Sera?"

The boldness of the question is too much. I cannot say what I want, for there are no words for such a want (_need_). How could the desire to feel him inside, outside, _always_, possibly be conveyed?

"Sera." his voice is coaxing and demanding, but not pleading. He never pleads. "If you will not speak, then show me."

The firm stone floor is pressing up against my back, and his warmth is on my neck and along my side, but not on my face. Propped up on one elbow he is _looking_, waiting, and the expectation weighs heavily upon my heart.

But if he leaves the light goes, and the darkness returns, and there is the _need_ for contact, companionship, someone...

_Him_.

As I drag the sodden hem up my calves my neck is suddenly adjusted, my head tilting up towards his face.

"No, Sera. Don't close your eyes. There is no reason to hide from me. Look at me," he says (_commands_) with that sweet smile.

As the gown rises further, urged on whenever it slows, my hands cannot help but shake. The exposure, the vulnerability, and the way he keeps on smiling that charming smile...

Whenever it pauses, whenever the thought occurs to roll away, to hide in the dark, to shut him out, he compliments, or soothes, or encourages. And looking in his black (red) eyes there is a darkness to be found unlike the other, a warm dark of quiet places, where worry and concern can be forgotten, where everything is safe.

Safe and _exposed_.Layers of damp cloth press across my neck, bunched up as high as they can go, but they aren't enough to block out the view as he finally breaks eye contact and begins his examination. It is curious, unusual, and yet exciting. His studying glances are accompanied with the feather touch of his fingers, as if the tips of them are necessary to confirm his sight.

And I watch on, lying there, shivering occasionally though I am not cold, pleased at his pleasure, worrying if I will be deemed worthy, and wanting (_needing_) things to continue.

His gaze drifts back up as he shifts position above me, the press of the soft fabric of his shirt and warm (so _warm_) touch of his legs welcome, wanted, and dominating. The grip on the nape of my neck tightens and our eyes lock.

"Sera, tell me what you want," he urges. 

A brief hesitation follows in which deep undercurrents swirl around us. There is much contained in that question, and I know that in answering I choose my fate. 

They say there is always a choice, but there is no choice at all. How could I choose anything other than warmth and light and safety (_love_) and...

_Him_.

"You." The answer is cut off with a kiss as he claims me, and in that moment a shudder takes hold as emotions collide.

Lust plays over top them all, dancing across the surface of the fear and the happiness and the vulnerability – oh Gods, such vulnerability - as it feels as though he's possessing my mind, my body, my very _being_.

And as I stare into his black eyes as his heat (such _heat_) moves through me, I let him own me, offering myself up as _his_.


	9. Chapter 9

There are no more tears.

They have run dry, scattered to the stone floor, searing rivers of ice lost to the black. The loathsome darkness has taken them from me – taken so much more than just them from me.

Another sob, painful and dessicated, is tossed into the abyss. Would that I could blame the darkness. Would that I could shout into it, curse it, point my finger and call it _thief_.

But that would be a lie. It was my own insufferable foolishness that brought this freezing hell into creation, that birthed this lonely damnation.

_Why?_

Why had I been such an idiot? So much freely given – warmth, light, food, companionship, safety (_love?_)...

And yet there'd been that yearning for more. Fingers wanting to feel something other than just the sodden press of damp linen between them. Treacherous arms that longed to _hold_, to embrace such strength, power, warmth (_heat_).

One stolen touch, fingertips darting up to snatch a caress of velvet warm cheek, raven soft hair, and all had been lost. _He_ had been lost, receding into darkness, void within and without echoing with the quiet torture of his words.

_I do not recall giving permission for you to touch me._

Oh, the look in those scarlet black eyes – the disappointment, the unhappiness – splits my heart in two with each remembrance. All that is left to me are memories of him.

They used to keep me warm and safe - the invisible imprints of his hands, lips, _skin_ - my protection against the chill that tried to burrow into my heart as the wet robes clinging to me slowly lost their moisture to the darkness. Every trip to the slick waters where even the emerald glow of his spell can't penetrate was welcomed, though it stripped me of his claim - the scent of him that clung to my skin.

But with each renewal the heat was rekindled, and I could once more _offer_ my worthy (clean) body up to him. Each time it was accepted. And each time I knew the fires of _bliss_.

All of it lost now, heedlessly thrown into the darkness, cast aside for one last stolen prize. I was the thief, robbing myself of happiness for the indulgence of a mere whim.

It has been hours (say hours don't say days for days are eternities without _him_) of darkness; hours of freezing cold gripping my body, shaking it in constant torment; hours of heartsickness, each beat increasing the count of moments since all was lost.

Another shiver seizes me in an icy grasp, and the clink of metal on stone as my (_his_) bracers knock against the floor is agony to my ears. They belong to him, and would that I could again as well.

Dry, wracking sobs roll out from me, the sound of my desperation rattling around in the dark, trailing into the nothing. Do they freeze in the cold air, little ephemeral bubbles of wretchedness encapsulated in perfect crystalline prisons? Does frost draw circles on my skin, write love letters of pain as it dances above the searing agony of my heart?

"Sera? Is something wrong?"

The light, the sound, the warm press of skin (_safe_) – it is too much joy to take, too much white happiness in a world of black despair. My words flow out in a torrent, incomprehensible babbles of _sorry_ and _thank you_ and _never again_. As he pulls me up into a sitting position, strong (warm) arms cradling me once more, all reasoning slips away over the edge of terror.

Tremors make the dribble of nonsense even worse, the vibrations of fear as I try to explain (what if I can't what if I fail what if he leaves again) growing stronger with each passing second. Panic grips my mind, each action and phrase caught in a whirl of _would_, _could_, and _should_. If only I could cling to him (shouldn't touch don't have permission) then I could be safe (loved) and this verbal barrage of tear-soaked apologies (mustn't cry) would end. But with every passing utterance I fear I only widen the chasm between us, with his kindness (perfection) on one side and my imperfections (unworthy) on the other. And instead of eloquence and persuasion I am nothing but a quivering mass of _weakness_, desperately frightened of driving him away forever.

"Shh, Sera, you're shaking. Shh." The tightened grip on my neck, the warm finger on my parched lips, command where his words soothe. The nonsensical babble ceases, leaving us alone in perfect quiet. "Your skin is like ice. Are you cold?"

Ah, the concern warms (burns) me. Not trusting my voice the question is answered with a nod. For in truth I am frozen, loneliness so cold it seared my heart, and his heat thaws (melts) me.

"Let me fix that." The tiniest ripple of magicka, the lazy stretching out of immense power, and we are joined by an invited interloper, brilliant heat dripping off it like liquid rain.

"Sera, shh, you startle so. Do you think I'd let it hurt you?" The soft words, so calm and kind, sting with the intensity of a whiplash. Fear at the fire atronach – _his_ fire atronach – was I trying to insult him? Oh, this is all going wrong...

The gentle fingers, the feather soft press of kisses as he hushes me, bring forth a million different desires, all starting and ending with _him_. Between the heat of his creation, the relaxation as his spells banish the pain, and his care filled urgings to still myself and drink some water, the terror is finally brought under control. He is here again, and I am _safe_.

Grateful to follow his instructions, the meal is quickly consumed. Desire to prolong it loses out to starvation, for it has been hours (must say hours surely its only been hours) since the last one. The water is taken slower, savoured in the heat (fire) of the atronach.

It is hot now in this small room, sweat trickling in damp streaks down my back. Though it hasn't moved, somehow the atronach seems bigger, more solid, closer. The pewter pitcher is grabbed and released, metal sizzling on skin.

He doesn't seem to feel it, sitting there with his pleased smile. It is just me who detects this heat? That notices the ground baking underneath, scents the trail edge of smoke?

All moisture is gone from the air, and the attempt is made to extract it from my dehydrated body. But there is none to be found, skin already like parchment left too long in the sun, brittle and vulnerable as kindling. Any minute the hairs on my arms will become a forest fire in miniature, raging inferno of flame and destruction. Every breath scorches its way down to my lungs, deserts created with each inhalation.

And still he sits there, watching me, pleasure on his lips. I know I am safe – surely I am safe? Surely this raging heat that grasps me, making me want to strip off my very _skin_ in search of relief, hotter than the very height of the desert in summer, won't harm me...

"Sera? Is something wrong?" The question comes as my body pushes backwards, trying to get away from the creature of flame, the heat that steals the very dampness from my eyes.

"Hot. It's too hot. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," the apologies start again, as does the shaking. A darting glance reveals the grim set of his mouth as the atronach is dismissed. The sudden coolness provides no relief. My lack of trust – I have failed him again.

"Perhaps it's time for more of the story." He has stayed for now, and though he does not comfort he also does not scold. The tiniest bud of hope remains, hidden deep in a dark forest of self-recriminations.

"The princess was kind and wise, deigning to speak with the demon, and he loved her all the more for it. So he hid her away safely, setting wards and protections she could never hope to understand. But there were times when fear shone in her eyes, and it hurt to see her frightened of him."

"No!" That was not the way the story went. Biting the trembling lower lip hard enough to draw blood, determined not to cry, my voice needs to be heard. "He didn't scare her. He was _safe_."

"Then what worried her, Sera?" The silken touch of fingertips over the punctured lip, healing away the damage, elicit a shiver of pleasure.

"The dark." It is said with a whisper, suspicions that the mere mention of the word will conjure up the hated blackness.

A noise of understanding, faint tinge of regret underneath, is the reply. The story is paused, his strong fingers tilting my head to look at him, at the friendly smile beneath the warm black eyes, and my own lips can't helping mirroring his in response.

"There were many things they kept hidden from each other, Sera. The princess kept secrets tucked away, refusing to share them even in the dark. And the demon knew things that worried and saddened him greatly."

"Could she help?" Would that there was some small way to repay his endless patience, understanding, and kindness.

"Maybe. Maybe if she knew that the noble had sent another like her, lesser in skills and far lesser in intelligence, to kill the demon. Maybe if she knew that the assassin carried two blades – one for the demon, and one for her. Maybe if she knew that the assassin spoke of a magical item that allowed the noble to see everywhere – except into the magical dark the demon wrapped around the princess to keep her safe and hidden. Maybe if she knew all that, she could help him."

"The dark hides her from Savilla's Stone?" All this time the cursed darkness was another form of protection? A magical blackness of safety?

"Savilla's Stone? Sera, what is this you speak of?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't know. If I'd known, I'd never have taken it. You must believe me..." The lament is silenced with soft lips and strong arms.

"I trust you, Sera. I always have." The words are so beautiful, just like the mer who speaks them. "Now tell me about this stone. Tell me everything, my Sera."


	10. Chapter 10

_Content_.

There is no better word for this state of being – lying here with the memory of him upon my skin, in this warm cocoon of darkness (safety). The linen shift is tucked up as a makeshift pillow, a luxury of comfort now that the cold never visits in the dark anymore. Perhaps it too has been warded away with his spells. There seems to be nothing that he cannot do, my most magnificent mer.

_Mine_.

It is a strange sort of possession, a reversal of the meaning, but it exists in this place of nothing, this decadent limbo of existence. He is the positive, the light, the future.

Whereas I am the negative, an empty shell of delightful memories, created only by his presence. Because his eyes find pleasure, then I am beautiful. Because his desires are satiated, then I am worthy. Because he keeps me _safe_, then I am _loved_.

Because he claims me, then I am _his_.

And in the dark, it is easy to see that it works in reverse. Because I am his to claim, then that makes him my creator, my owner, my _master_.

_Mine_.

Stretching out, sighing with remembered bliss, the conspicuous silence sends shocks of terror up my spine.

No! Another shake of the ankle confirms my fears – the chain was not re-attached.

Don't panic. So long as I don't move, then I'll be safe. Just lie here, and wait for him to return. That's the best plan.

But what if sleep overtakes me? What if I toss and turn, rolling across the floor? What if I've already slept, and am too close?

_Think_. Don't let the fear lead to rash action. Perhaps a careful search of the floor, a sweep of the hands, will work.

No. Because just as likely as my fingers are to hit wall, they could also hit _it_. The only danger left to me. The reason the chain is necessary. The _door_.

There is nothing but disorientation in the black, only the floor available to provide a reference – down. Everything else is there, or there, or there. There is no west, or up, or sideways. Just a vast expanse of _there_, encircling all around. And somewhere in it, lies the door.

What does it do? That question is pushed away whenever it occurs, the thoughts drowned out with replayed conversations, past caresses, or lingering flavours.

Watermelon is in season.

But now the question of what it does is pressing. Does it destroy on contact? Possibly. Probably. But how much contact? An arm, a hand, a fingernail? A hair? Would that be enough to trigger an instant end?

_Think_. It probably won't explode – that makes no sense for such a small space. So if it does shock, or burn, it would be magical. And magic needs magic to travel through. Even the minor spark of mana in a child would be enough. A rock, however, is inert. Elsewise the magic would already be racing through the room.

But there are no rocks to toss, no pebbles to use as a detector. The only possessions I have are my (his) bracers, firmly attached, and the cuff on the ankle. And the damp linen shift...

It flops out in circles, an absurd parody of mopping a floor, and it is quickly determined that I'm in the middle of the room. Grabbing one sodden sleeve it is cast into the darkness like a fishing line, searching for sound instead of dinner.

A jangle under the noise of cloth slapping on stone is a beacon of hope. Repeated strokes return the same results, and leaving the shift on the floor I crawl across it, hands tentatively reaching forward, still nervous that somehow fear has led me astray.

But the reward is at hand, solid loops of metal hidden under the fabric. Fingers running along the length, the joy at the end brings a ragged sigh of relief. Carefully, slowly, trying to keep it steady, the open lock is worked into the loop on the cuff. A snick, a testing tug, and security is mine.

Relaxing onto the ground, crisis averted, my mind wanders back to its idle dreams as the fingertips of my hand play with the thick chain. Never has metal felt so welcome, or peaceful.

And for it, I am grateful and _content_.


	11. Chapter 11

"Sera. Quickly, come with me."

This is all wrong. He is here already, unlocking not the chain but the cuff itself. Spiderwebs of sleep still cling to my mind, but already it has registered that I can see too much.

Like the hall. The door is gone. The darkness is gone. And he is frowning, a thunderous expression of severity and displeasure.

"What did I..."

"Quiet." It is a hissed command, his hands holding the back of my bare arms as he pulls me up. At some point during the past minutes (for they are naught but prolonged minutes of nothingness, comfortable darkness in between visits of light) the linen shift, no longer necessary, disappeared.

Something is horribly wrong. He is clutching my hand (neck, it _should_ be the neck), tugging me through the empty flame lit hallways. The passages are familiar in their sameness, crimson-tinted rock glowing with the reflected fire of the torches. But the repetitive surroundings only add a surreal quality to the proceedings. Fear swoops red-taloned and sharp-eyed onto my heart.

A stifled gasp at the sight of stone block walls, grey and aged, up ahead. I know (knew) those. That loose corner on the lower left, the hidden gears at the top...

With a sigh of mountains the stones move away, and an opulent bedroom resplendent with linens and luxury awaits us on the other side. His room.

"Your wrists," he orders, and I dare not disobey. Offering up shaking hands, the sight of glowing magicka as the locks are released is watched through unshed tears.

The bare skin, naked with the removal of his claim, is an obscenity that _should not be_.

"There's a new robe, and your old things. Take them and go. Hurry."

A search of his narrowed eyes reveals no pretense, no hint of joke. There is no smile on that taut mouth as he releases my arms. This is real.

"No." The reply is moaned as my legs crumple, my hands landing roughly on the fine carpet. Emerald green, the colour of his light. It's not possible that I should never see it again. The near forgotten feeling of magicka trickling back into my body is cold comfort. No spell could ever replace _his_.

"You must. It is not safe. I have...failed you."

"No." I refuse to believe it possible. The sadness in those words, the defeat – what could have led to this? "I want to stay."

"Sera, you _cannot_ stay. You must leave." A bitter chuckle of irony and darkness escapes him. "Is there nothing else you would ask of me?"

Staring at his leather shoes, at the worn spot on the right toe, my mind skips from thought to thought as it struggles to make sense of it all. The offensive feel of bare wrists, delicate skin protesting at the exposure, keeps intruding. I need time to process it all.

"Story. Tell me the story." It is a desperate gamble, and the wait for his response is a fresh torment in this waking nightmare.

"You want the rest of the story? Very well, Sera, though you won't like it."

As if reality was much better at the moment. _Think_. Surely there was another way.

_Hurry_.

"The noble would not stop. He sent more assassins. He let it be known that he would never rest until the demon was dead. And then the demon saw that nothing he could do would ever protect the princess. So long as he was hunted, then she could never be safe."

A pause, and the ice prickle sensation of fingers lightly grazing my hair causes a shiver through my spine.

"And so he sent her away, though it killed him inside to do it. But she was smart, and powerful, and he could see no other way to keep her alive. For he loved her, and wished her happiness and safety – neither of which he could provide."

"No." The tears are falling now, dark green splotches blossoming on the carpet. My arms shake, wanting nothing more than to grab his legs and cling (_mustn't touch don't have permission_), begging for anything but _this_.

"How else could it end, Sera? What else could have happened?"

"What if..." What if what? What would re-write the ending? How could a happily ever after be salvaged from _this_?

_Think. Hurry_.

"What if the noble died? What if he wasn't around to hunt the demon?"

A large sigh is the initial answer to my question. "But who would fight him? He is hidden away. The demon would be killed before he could even look upon on the noble."

"The princess." Looking up into his scarlet red eyes, wiping the tear tracks from my cheeks, I offer up a solution.

_My_ solution.

"Sera..."

"She can do it. She could get close to him. He'd never suspect." Well, he might suspect a little – fine, a _lot_ - but surely a properly crafted story would allay his suspicions. It it was the only way.

And that second poisoned dagger has never been forgotten, a special delivery for a failed lover.

"Why would she risk it, Sera? What if there are others like him?" The stern expression has softened. Time to press the point.

"Because he saved her. The demon cared for the princess, and she saw his goodness and his beauty, and she came to love him for it. And so she used her abilities to protect him from harm – from the noble, and from any others who would dare wish to hurt him. Because she wanted nothing more than to be with _him_. Forever."

"_Sera_." The pleased smile is back, so is the wondrous feel of his hand on my neck. I rise up with it, legs suffused with a renewed strength.

"My brilliant, clever Sera." The soft kiss is the sweetest yet. "It might work. There is something you should have. They will protect you when I cannot."

Two gold bracers, pulled from some hidden pocket, are held open with his free hand. Each lonely wrist quickly finds a new home in them, the finely crafted metal fitting like a second skin. By all appearances they are naught but large bracelets. But the runes worked into the textured borders mark them as something else.

_His_.

Both of his hands are on my neck now, strong arms holding me close in a warm embrace. The trembling of the bracers as overwhelming desires are resisted attract his notice.

"What is it, Sera? What would you ask of me."

"I would like..." The heat of crimson flush races over my face. "May I touch you?"

"Of course, Sera." The gentleness, the pride, the _love_ – my hearts swells near to bursting at the tender look on his face. "You need only have asked."

His kind smile is the first item on the list of things to be claimed.

Mine.

Finally, _mine_.


	12. Chapter 12

"That is _not_ my name. Do not speak it again."

"Watch your attitude! I'm glad you're back, but I will not tolerate your disrespect." The blue slanted eyes dart around the room, searching the shadows. Is there another lover on her way? Has he been hosting them here in this squalid room that reeks of seaweed and plots?

Has he grown bored of me already? Or does he fear that I _know_?

"It's been weeks." His chest deflates, bluster fading. "I searched for you constantly, but there was only darkness in the stone. You disappeared."

The sight of the indicated (feared) weapon on his desk causes a skip of the heart. It's here, he's here, and we're alone. Every condition satisfied.

"Did you really miss me? Or were you just worried that I'd failed?" The temptation to taunt cannot be resisted. Careful though – too much and he might startle.

"Of course I missed you. It hasn't been the same without you." It's funny – he still walks with that hint of prowl, still wears that same lopsided smirk. It's almost believable.

_Almost_. But he isn't that good of a liar.

"Because you _need_ me, right?" That was always it. Never talk of love for love's sake. Always love before assignments, love before risks, love before peril.

Love before murder.

"Because I love you." And there it is again, that casual use of such a powerful word. Hands on the shoulders, prelude to an intense kiss – time to cut this little reunion short.

My _real_ love awaits.

"Then you'll love me more when you see the present I brought you." The small velvet covered box is offered. Black velvet – such a beautiful colour. The intense colour of safe places and scarlet black eyes. "Go on, open it."

Apprehension is in his movements, the normally confident grasp hesitant, but the bait is taken. He's always been too curious. "The Arrow of Extrication? Capital!" A squint and a pause. "It's darker than it looks in the stone. And it's bigger than I thought."

"Well, that's it, no mistake. I'll tell you the story of how I finally acquired it later. Hold it – you can feel the magic."

"Why don't you hand it to me?" The blue eyes have grown cold, frozen over with suspicion. Cunning, ruthless bastard.

He knows that I know. I shouldn't be here in his hovel of secrecy, upsetting his plans, offering him the decoy he sent me to fetch.

"With pleasure." The arrowhead is warm to the touch. In the glint of the candles it appears to reflect fire instead of light, a wildfire flash of red dancing over the stone, mimicking twinkle flaring around the edges of my wrists.

"Thank you." Polite to the end, he graciously accepts the proferred gift.

It does not seem to please him, though it was created specially for his use. Crafted with attention to the smallest detail, the grandest of soul gems used to enchant it, the meticulously made decoy falls from his hand to wedge between two warped boards, it's intricate spell finally cast.

Few know that the claws of daedroth are actually sharper than their teeth. While their bite is powerful, capable of grinding bone to dust, it is the casual flick of the arm that should be feared. For the razor tipped claws are harbingers of waterfalls of blood, sprays creating sanguine stories on the wall, that are the hallmark of a daedroth attack.

Savilla's Stone tucked away in the pack, piercing screams replaced by the quiet snap of sinews being torn from bone, the scaly head of the daedra receives a gentle pat of praise. A warm tingle of magicka runs around each encircled wrist.

There is no fear, for I am _his_, and as such I am _safe_.

Slipping into the night, pleased that I have returned the favour, there remains nothing but to go home to my love and begin the tale anew.

And this time, it shall _start_ with happily ever after...


End file.
